She held the crisp white sheet of his letter a moment too long, then resolutely thrust it into the library fire before her. She was still in the library, curled up in an overstuffed chair beside the fire and lost in the contemplation of the dancing flames, when she felt her father’s gaze upon her. She looked up to find him watching her from the doorway.
“No book?” he said. His lips smiled, but his eyes were narrow with concern.
She shifted uncomfortably beneath his regard, as if he might somehow detect the dangerous drift of her thoughts, just by looking at her. To forestall him, she said, “I heard Patrick Somerville is dead. Did you have him killed?”
“No. It was my intention to do so, but he managed to beat me to it. Quinine and arsenic can be a deadly combination.”
“He killed himself?”
“Probably. Although for the sake of his father, it will be ruled an accident.”
She tipped her head back against the seat cushion. “So many deaths,” she said quietly. “Any decision yet on who’ll replace Perceval?”
Jarvis snorted. “I left Prinny and the rest arguing over whether to offer the premiership to Canning or Castlereagh. A moot point, since neither man will take it. Between Bonaparte and the Americans, this is a damnable time to be without a prime minister. Perceval might have been an ineffectual idiot, but he was better than no one.”
“Will there be any repercussions from today’s events?” she asked with studied casualness. “To Devlin’s killing of Epson-Smith, I mean.”
“Hardly. Epson-Smith attacked him. Oh, there’ll be some talk, of course. But then, there is always talk about Devlin. It will die down eventually.” He stared at her for so long it took all of her sangfroid to continue holding his gaze. “Devlin said there were three attempts on your life. I am only aware of two.”
His enemies credited him with such omniscience that she’d worried he might somehow come to learn of those disastrous hours in the vaults beneath the ruined gardens of the old Somerset House. It was a relief to know that he had not. Perhaps, with time, she herself would be able to forget for days at a time that it had occurred. “There was no third attempt.”
“You lie well,” he said, coming toward her, “but not well enough yet to deceive me.”
Tipping back her head, she gave him a soft smile. “No one can deceive you, Papa.”
“Not for long. Remember that,” he said. Reaching out, he touched her cheek, briefly, with his knuckles. It was the closest he ever came to a gesture of affection. Or an apology.
It was the Earl of Hendon’s habit every morning that he was in London to rise early and exercise his big gray in Hyde Park before breakfast.
On the Tuesday following the death of Spencer Perceval, the mist lay heavily on the rain-drenched grass. But the air held a new crispness, a promise of the vital energy of a spring too long delayed in coming. Turning his black Arabian mare through the gates to the park, Sebastian could see the Earl trotting briskly up the Row, his body rising and falling in rhythmic precision with his horse’s easy action.
For a moment, Sebastian checked, the familiar drumming of the gray’s hooves on the earth reverberating in the ghostly stillness. The urge to wheel the mare’s head and simply ride away was strong. But still he sat, his reins held in a clenched fist.
Through the mist beyond the dark line of trees, he could see the spire of the Abbey and, beyond that, the towers of the ancient palace of Westminster. He kept remembering the helpless longing he’d seen in Perceval’s face as the dying Prime Minister asked for his son with his last, gasping breath. Sebastian’s anger was still there, burrowed deep. The anger and the hurt. But something had shifted within him, and he knew now what he must do.
Hendon had reached the end of the Row. When he turned, his gaze fell on his son’s rigid, solitary figure. Sebastian saw the Earl tense with a cautious, joyous hope. He felt the air damp against his face, the mare restless beneath him. Tightening his knees, he sent the mare flying forward across the park.
Toward his father, and toward a reconciliation too long delayed.
Author’s Note
Fresh from their conquest of Cape Town from the Dutch, the British did indeed attempt to conquer Argentina in 1806 and 1807. The expedition was a disastrous failure, although the lingering animosity toward Perceval on the part of the surviving officers of the 20th Hussars is my own invention.
On May 11, 1812, Spencer Perceval became the only British Prime Minister—thus far—to be assassinated in office. His death occurred much as it is portrayed here, although the proceedings at the Old Bailey (now available online, for those who are interested) uncovered no evidence of any kind of conspiracy. Despite his obvious insanity, John Bellingham was found guilty and hanged barely a week later.
I have altered a few other facts to fit my story. Prior to his fatal visit to the House of Commons, Bellingham did take the family of a friend to look at pictures, but it was to a watercolor exhibit at the European Museum rather than the annual exhibit at the Royal Academy of Art. According to a journalist present at the assassination, Perceval’s last words were, “I am murdered!” It is likely, however, that the journalist was indulging in sensationalism, given that other witnesses testified the Prime Minister said nothing before his death. I have therefore taken the liberty of also altering his last utterances.